A Bolt from the Blue

4

My father and I stared at what appeared at fi rst glance to be a linen and wood crucifi x; however, the requisite Christ figure was posed unlike any I had ever seen. Rather than resting supine with arms stretched wide, he was stretched at length upon his belly, hands and elbows to his sides. As for the crucifix’s crosspiece, it was constructed of cloth laid over delicate ribbed frame that seemed to resemble wings. Not so much those of a bird, perhaps, but more like the scalloped leathery appendages belonging to a bat.

Certainly, this was no religious carving, after all. Then realization struck with a serpent’s swiftness, and I gazed up at Leonardo in wide-eyed disbelief.

It should be said that the Master’s doings were of great interest here at Castle Sforza. From his glorious frescoes, which added color and gaiety to the fortress’s gloomy halls, to the elaborate pageants and parades, which provided feast day entertainment, all were subject to scrutiny by various and sundry of the castle’s inhabitants. Indeed, he was watched and discussed almost as closely as was Il Moro himself.

During the past few weeks, the rumor passed among the castle servants-and always accompanied by a snicker or roll of the eyes-concerned a new machine that they called “Signor Leonardo’s folly.” I’d also overheard the occasional whisper from one apprentice or another who had claimed to have seen a drawing of this marvel. But while I had no doubt that the invention might exist upon paper as part of the Master’s copious output of sketches both whimsical and sublime, I had never believed he would attempt to build it.

And yet, here it lay before my eyes.

Properly awed, I asked in a respectful tone, “Tell me, Master, is this what I think it is?”

“If you think that it is a flying machine,” he replied with a small smile, “then yes, it is.

“A scale model, of course,” he was quick to clarify as my eyes grew wider, “although I have also commenced work on the frame of the man-sized version. Still, there are several modifications that must be made to the design before either craft is deemed flight-worthy. Weight distribution is one issue that I-”

“A flying machine?”

The abrupt question came from my father, his tone incredulous. Worse, his usually placid expression reflected more than a hint of anger. Staring at the Master as if the younger man had taken leave of his senses, my father shook his head.

“Can it be, Signor Leonardo, that you summoned me to Milan on a fool’s errand?” he sputtered. “I thought to be serving the duke on a project of great importance, but you appear to be having a joke at my expense. I think it best that I forget this matter and return home to my own workshop.”

He paused to give me a concerned look and added, “And perhaps I should take my, er, son with me.”

“Father, no,” I cried before the Master could make a reply.

Clutching his tunic sleeve, I persisted, “I cannot leave, and you must stay as well. Signor Leonardo would not jest about such a matter. I have seen with my own eyes many of his wonderful inventions. If he says he can build a machine that flies, I am certain it can be done.”

“Your loyalty to your master is commendable,” my father replied in a stiff tone, “but I would be remiss in my duty to let you be led astray. Had God meant us to fly like birds, he would have given Adam feathers, rather than creating him naked and in need of a fig leaf. Surely you must see this is folly.”

“Folly to those who are not bold enough to dream.”

With those words, Leonardo carefully lifted the miniature flying machine from the table. Holding it in both hands at arm’s length, he assumed his familiar tone of lecture that I knew well from the workshop.

“Consider this, Signor Angelo,” he went on. “Had you never before seen a bird in flight, you would call me mad or worse if I were to describe such a creature to you. For, without any knowledge that such a feat was possible, you would claim that no creature could leave the confines of the earth for the sky.”

He paused to raise and lower the model a few times, causing its cloth wings to flap in a quite birdlike fashion.

“And yet we all know that the falcon can soar with the clouds and that the lark flits from tree to tree with but the beat of a wing. Why should man, with his mighty intellect, not be able to devise a craft to mimic a bird’s form, thus allowing him to sever his bond with the earth and join his feathered brethren?”

With those words, he handed the model to my father, who took it with apparent reluctance. I saw a new spark of interest in his eyes, however, as he deigned to study the design.

“Hmmm. . interesting,” he muttered, carefully turning the small machine about. Indicating the supporting portion of the wing framework, he added, “This piece appears overly heavy and rigid for its purpose. Replacing it with two narrow rods would lighten the weight and add flexibility while still maintaining stability. And certainly the choice of wood is a factor. You will require something with strength yet suppleness-perhaps ash-with special care taken for the quality of the grain.”

“And that is why I require your help, Signor Angelo,” the Master replied with a small smile. “While I am certain that my craft is soundly engineered, building it will require the expertise of a man who understands every nuance of the wood that will form it.”

My father merely snorted. Then, with a grudging nod, he conceded, “With the right materials, a large-scale version of this machine should prove but moderately difficult to build. Whether or not it can be made to fly is another issue. What manner of propulsion do you propose?”

“Ah, that is the easy part.”

Leonardo strode over to the shelves and held out a hand. My gaze followed, and I saw that he was reaching for a tiny hawk inexplicably perched there between two stacks of manuscripts.

After an instant of surprise-how had such a bird made its way into the Master’s workshop? — I realized that the feathered creature was long since dead. But so skillfully had the small raptor been mounted, with its wings spread wide and its head proudly tilted, that I almost expected it to take flight at his approach. Of course, it did not, and he carried it back to where my father and I stood.

“We know that a bird’s greatest strength lies in its breast,” he explained, holding the hawk in one hand and pointing to that portion of its anatomy with the other. “Those sturdy muscles allow its wings to beat with swiftness enough to send it aloft. In comparison, a bird’s legs are fragile limbs designed primarily for clutching at a branch for support or for hopping about short distances between flights.”

He set the stuffed bird upon the table and retrieved the model from my father. Returning the invention to its original spot on the table alongside its feathered counterpart, he detached the carved male figure fi xed atop it.

“Here is our source of power,” he declared, “but what remains is the question of how it should best be used.”

Deftly, he manipulated the figure’s jointed limbs. Now the wooden arms were extended to either side and the legs were bent, so that its stance mimicked the hawk’s flight-ready form.

“One might be inclined to try to duplicate the bird’s method of locomotion, with tucked legs and flapping arms,” he went on, “but such an experiment would prove faulty. No matter how strong the man, such a motion could be kept up for but a short time. For, unlike a bird, a typical human does not hold his greatest strength in his chest; rather his legs are the most powerful portion of his anatomy.”

He paused to reconfigure the wooden man so that its arms were bent and positioned close to its sides, while its nether limbs were extended to full length.

“To take advantage of that strength,” he explained, “I designed a pedal system that allows the greater might of the legs to exert the needed force to fl ap the wings.”

“So it will be almost like running in place,” I ventured as I tried to picture how this would work.

“Exactly,” he said with a nod. “The sky pilot-that is what I have dubbed the man who will operate those controls-will recline atop the flying machine and pedal vigorously to make the wings move up and down, giving the craft sufficient lift. Simultaneously, he will use his hands to control horizontal and vertical movement by manipulating cords that adjust the angle of both the wings and the rudder.”

His explanation complete, he returned the figure to its previous position atop the model.

“There are many other principles at work here, of course, but you now know the fundamental theory behind my design. Given that, Signor Angelo, do you still see only folly in this plan?”

My father frowned, holding the Master’s calm gaze with a troubled look of his own. I waited uneasily for his reply, knowing that my fate might well be affected by his decision. I could not deny that my first obedience must be to my father; still, Leonardo had become a parent of sorts to me, as well. Were I to be forced to choose between them, it would be a heart-wrenching decision, to be sure!

After a long moment, my father slowly shook his head. “I fear, Signor Leonardo, that I do not believe this machine of yours will ever fly,” he declared, the blunt words sending my heart plummeting toward my boots with the speed of an eagle diving for its prey.

But before I could give way to despair, his next words halted that figurative flight as he added, “Still, I have no doubt that you yourself are convinced that you can accomplish this fantastical feat. Under such circumstances, my own feelings matter naught. And so I will be honored to work alongside you on this project on behalf of the Duke of Milan.”

It was all I could do not to cheer this great news, but I contented myself with a broad grin. Leonardo looked pleased, as well, and grasped my father’s hands in his.

“We shall make fine partners. . and Dino shall prove a worthy assistant, as well,” he added, including me in his smile. Reaching for the discarded length of oiled cloth, he quickly wrapped it about the model so that the small craft was well hidden and its lines blurred beneath the folds of fabric.

“But, for the moment, I think that Dino should rejoin his fellows,” he told my father. “For I wish now to show you my progress on the full-scale model, and I must make a rule that only you and I shall have access to the shed where it is kept.”

“Do not worry, Master. I understand,” I was quick to assure him. “I shall find Constantin, for he told me he will be spending the remainder of the afternoon taking measurements in the chapel for the new fresco. I am certain he can use another set of hands.”

“Very good. And fear not-you shall join your father and me in the morning to help finish testing our model.”

I left the pair and headed off to the small chapel in the duke’s private wing. Safely ensconced behind high walls and an iron gate, and with its own tower, that portion of the castle served as an ultimate stronghold against any outside army’s attempt at conquest. There, the duke could make a final stand should the fortress ever be overrun by one of his enemies. For now, however, the soldiers who guarded that entry gave me but a cursory look as I explained my errand and then let me pass.

The chapel was perhaps large enough to hold two dozen worshippers, though the peeling plaster and dust-covered pews indicated it had been some time since Mass had been celebrated there. I made my genuflection toward the small altar and then chided myself for my lapse into blasphemy as I saw, not the martyred Lord, but the design of the Master’s flying machine in the crucifix hanging above it.

Constantin put aside his sheaf of notes and welcomed me with a smile. He was sketching the dimensions of the chapel’s walls, making notes of heights and lengths as he calculated the needed size of the scaffolding we would soon be assembling there. I grasped one end of the cord he had been using to take his measures and began calling out numbers to him as we made our way about the room.

When we’d finished, we settled in one of the dusty pews. While Constantin filled in the rest of his sketch, we talked about my father’s arrival in Milan.

“I am not surprised that the Master kept your father’s arrival a secret from you,” Constantin assured me with a grin. “He enjoys a clever trick as much as any boy. I am sure he will laugh to himself for many days each time he recalls the look that must have been upon your face. The one thing I do not understand is how he could have known beforehand that Master Angelo was your father.”

I recounted the Master’s explanation, and the senior apprentice nodded. “Your father must be a talented master, indeed, for Leonardo to have requested his services.”

With his next words, however, his amusement sobered into a sigh, and his reedy voice took on a somber note.

“Ah, Dino, you do not know how fortunate you are to have your father here with you. My father is long dead, and yet I still miss him as if he were just now gone. I know I would gladly give ten years of my life to have him back long enough to share one last meal with him.”

Then he brightened. “But let us not speak of sad things. We are finished here, and we still have some time before the evening meal. Why don’t we go watch the soldiers practicing with their horses in the quadrangle?”

I readily agreed. It was a favored pastime of us apprentices, observing Il Moro’s mounted men and their immense steeds as they conducted their warlike maneuvers upon the parade ground. Though they used wooden weapons and practiced prescribed drills, the sight of the armored men and colorfully blanketed horses dashing about still was exciting, no matter that it happened almost daily.

We found a spot a safe distance from the action, though still close enough that we had to duck the occasional clod of dirt sent flying by a shod hoof. Constantin and I were not the only observers, for two of the stableboys and a handful of pages were already gathered where we sat. We youths clapped and cheered each skillful move, all of us secretly picturing ourselves performing such dramatic feats.

I had leaned closer to Constantin to praise one soldier’s particularly adroit use of his sword, when I noticed the group of serving women milling not far from where we sat. Some juggled baskets and bundles, others stood empty-handed, but all seemed as enthralled as we by the soldiers’ performance.

All, that was, save for one robed figure.

Male or female, I could not tell, for the simple brown cloak muffled the person’s form sufficiently that I could distinguish neither broad shoulders nor womanly curves. But what sent a sudden shiver through me was not simply the way that that hood of the figure’s cloak was pulled over his head so that the sturdy fabric partially concealed his face. Rather, it was the fact that this decidedly ominous presence appeared to be focused not upon the soldiers, but directly on me.

Shaken, I turned to Constantin and gave him a swift nudge. “Look,” I whispered, though I could not have been overheard for the sound of the mock combat, even had I shouted. “Do you see that person watching me?”

“Watching you? Where?” Constantin obediently glanced about, and then grinned a little. “Do you mean those serving women? I fear you think too highly of yourself, Dino, for they are reserving their admiration for the soldiers, and not you.”

“No, I mean the one in the robe. .”

I trailed off as I realized that, in the few seconds I’d been distracted by talking with Constantin, the object of my uneasiness had vanished. Or perhaps the person still stood there but had shrugged off the robe and was merely one of the ogling females, so that I had been mistaken in attributing anything sinister to the incident.

I heard a few shouted commands from one of the soldiers, signaling the end of the demonstration. I rose and brushed the grass from my tunic, deliberately ridding myself, as well, of the uneasy feeling that had gripped me. Obviously, it had been far too long since I’d last joined the Master in a dramatic adventure, I thought with a wry shake of my head. Why else would I be seeing menacing figures where there was none, and attributing sinister motives to innocent passersby? Perhaps it was fortunate that I now had this new assignment working as my father’s assistant to keep my imagination in check.

But for the rest of the day, I found myself glancing over my shoulder, lest I discover a robed figure standing behind me and inexplicably watching my every move.